By Naomi Shihab Nye
Every few minutes, he wants
to march the trail of flattened rye grass
back to the house of muttering
hens. He too could make
a bed in hay. Yesterday the egg so fresh
it felt hot in his hand and he pressed it
to his ear while the other children
laughed and ran with a ball, leaving him,
so little yet, too forgetful in games,
ready to cry if the ball brushed him,
riveted to the secret of birds
caught up inside his fist,
not ready to give it over
to the refrigerator
or the rest of the day.
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I had a fairly quiet Thursday, though the weather was gorgeous and I wanted to make sure I got out to enjoy it before whatever wintry mix we're supposed to get overnight. There are still crocuses and snowdrops in the park, and lenten roses in my neighborhood. It was kind of a busy news day here and in Vietnam and the Middle East, so I kept checking the headlines, too.
We watched tonight's episode of The Orville, whose resolution felt rather rushed but was in most ways enjoyable and it looks like none of the major arcs are over from next week's previews. Then we caught up on Victoria, which I dislike this season -- the major characters have all become so unlikable and childish. From Richmond's VMFA, the Faberge Egg collection:
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